


Surrender By Any Other Name

by Sophia_Bryth



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Femdom, No Angst, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content, Sexual Roleplay, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 09:51:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10919394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bryth/pseuds/Sophia_Bryth
Summary: "Kneel," she commands when he presents himself before her majesty, the single word her royal proclamation, an edict from on high. It may be that beyond these walls he is the commander, the leader of armies great and terrible but in this space, this private sanctuary,thisgame - she commands and he obeys.(Or, the one where Bossy-Boots Nesta makes Cassian beg for it and he's only too happy to oblige.)





	Surrender By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> Is this good? Is this bad? I don't know! I actually finished something, though, so up it goes before I chicken out.

### 

His lady is his queen, his empress; a deity made flesh.

"Kneel," she commands when he presents himself before her majesty, the single word her royal proclamation, an edict from on high. It may be that beyond these walls he is the commander, the leader of armies great and terrible but in this space, this private sanctuary, _this_ game - she commands and he obeys. His knees sink into the thick pile of the rug beneath him as he complies, ever her willing supplicant.

It's only then she deigns to leave her place where she stands by the window, stalking with slow, deliberate steps. She does not hurry. In his gravity time itself surrenders to her whim.

"Tell me, bastard, what purpose do you serve?" she asks, appraises him with clear, cold eyes, storm clouds against a bright blue sky. Fatal grace and deadly poise incarnate, his ruin and salvation.

He smirks as she brushes past his side; he complies but he does not cower. "I serve to please my lady," he answers in earnest. Stripped of the trappings and circumstances, it's still just as true.

She merely hums in acknowledgement at that, standing somewhere very close behind him. He doesn't turn to look. "And if you do not wish to serve, do you know what to say?" She strokes a finger along the curve of the talon at the tip of his wing, denying him the pleasure of her touch on the otherwise sensitive appendage. The bony claw doesn't _feel_ , not the way it will a little lower....

"Yes," he grinds out, tense with anticipation as she traces the line of the talon down and down and...

Her touch abates, suddenly returns and he fights to bite back the cry that threatens to leak from him at the sharp stab of pain, her fingernails dug deep into the sensitive membrane below the claw.

"Try it with your manners this time," she hisses, pressing harder.

He shudders. "Yes, _my lady_ ," he growls and she relents. She completes her turn without touching him again.

His lady is a vixen, a feral minx; there is no other like her. Already he can feel himself stirring.

Her nostrils flare. "Do you want me, bastard?" she scents his awakening arousal. Her sweetly poisoned lips, painted red, curl upward; she smiles but it bares her sharp white teeth. The pretense of false modesty is beneath her, even in her dress. He follows the outline of her long, shapely legs up the length of the translucent skirts, over the tight bodice cut low and tight across her breasts, accentuating their fullness.

"Always, my lady." It's with some reluctance he lifts his eyes to her face.

"And what do you think _you_ could do to have _me_?" A challenge. A taunt.

She wears no ornament except for a length of velvet ribbon tied close around her throat. He swallows hard. "I'll do anything you ask, my lady."

He inhabits his role without playing at all.

Her answering smile is cat-like; predatory. "Very well." She turns on her heel, skirts swirling to the devastating sway of her hips as she crosses the room, dragging an armchair around so it faces him. She settles herself, leaning back and draping her arms over the sides - a monarch on her throne. "Come here," she orders. "Crawl."

And he does without question, sparking a vague recollection of another time, ages ago, blips of darkness from which he found such light. Different and the same from the way he slinks towards her now, whole and unharmed, on clean hands and knees, but ever just as dutiful. Ever just as devoted.

If she also recalls, it doesn't show in her expression. Indeed, in the face of the greatest Illryian warrior in history prostrating himself before her, she looks nothing save slightly bored.

There is _no other_ like her.

She opens herself to him when he nears, sliding her skirts up over her knees. "I want you to put your mouth on me. Here."

His mouth goes dry. His heart hammers. She is bare beneath her skirt. He can almost taste her scent, the musky sweetness flooding his senses, narrowing the plane of his existence to the space between her thighs. She wears the mantle of disinterest like a second skin, his lady, but her body betrays her; she is anything but. Satisfaction rumbles through his chest as he sets himself to his task.

Slowly - intending to be thorough - he begins by pressing his lips to the inside of her knee, the lightest caress, soft as a whisper. She slackens, somewhat, her fingers threading through his hair. He shifts his attention upward, lavishing the inner thigh with nibbles and licks, marking his progress towards her center, the source of that _scent..._

He brackets her hips in his hands to shift her closer and her fingers tighten, so close to losing his breath in her slick, slick clench...

She yanks hard on his hair, pulling his face up by a fistful of strands to look at her and he snarls and snaps his teeth, a dog parted from its bone. But she doesn't flinch, doesn't blink. She only yanks harder.

"I didn't say you could touch me with anything other than your over sized mouth," she growls. "Take your filthy Illryian hands off of me." Her tone is brittle. She's impatient.

"Your loss," he can't help the boast as moves them away and this time she pulls so hard his mouth falls open, lips parted by the quiet moan that he can't help from spilling out of him. She makes a noise of contempt in her throat.

"Shut your mouth," she steams, "and lick my cunt before I decide I'm bored of you and change my mind."

At that he wastes no time surging forward, laying into her with a long stripe from the broad flat of his tongue, at once intoxicated by her taste. She settles in and soon is barking instructions. Harder. Faster. More. More. He is no more than the instrument of her pleasure and yet he revels in it, breathing hard through his nose as she keeps her hold firm in his hair, fusing his mouth to her while that voice of silk and steel starts to stutter around her commands.

When she makes _that_ sound, the one he knows is seared on his soul, he rallies his efforts, harder and faster, obedient to her every desire. He closes his mouth over her clit and sucks hard until she stiffens and shatters, her choked out cries of pleasure reporting directly to his untouched cock.

"Enough," she pants, pushing him away from her with a palm against his brow. She slouches into the armchair to compose herself, looking down at him though heavy lidded eyes as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and waits, completely still. Waiting to see what else she'll demand of him, or if...

"Look at you," she practically purrs, "breathless and covered in my sheen, waiting so _patiently_." She sits up, her skirts cascading back down her legs. "Would you like to be pleased in return?"

By now his length is pressing painfully against the confines of his pants, the damp spot concealed only by the dark color of the fabric. "Yes, my lady," he manages to keep his voice from breaking.

Because it isn't a plea. _Not yet._

She rises from her seat, pushing it back with a foot, snaps her fingers and buttons scatter, ripped from his shirt as if by an invisible force, a taste of the power that she still practices to master. He feels himself unfurl, hard and heavy against his leg and looks down to find his pants are simply gone - vaporized into nothing where he sits.

Gathering her skirts once more she straddles his freshly stripped lap, balancing her weight across his thighs, the tops of her legs almost-but-not-quite touching him in that place he's increasingly desperate for it. Unconsciously he shifts towards her, chasing a touch, some friction, anything - but she slips back, clicking her tongue.

"Stop squirming," she scolds. When he stills she leans in close. "Your pleasure is _mine_ , do you understand?"

Words escape him. He can only nod.

"You will finish only when _I_ tell you that you may," she continues, leaning back, tilting her head. She places a hands on his chest where his busted shirt sits open.

"How shall I please you?" she wonders aloud, the question entirely rhetorical, the hand drifting upward, fingers dancing along the whorls of ink in his skin before it passes over his shoulder and floats across the gap to his wing.

He is perfectly still, not moving but he can't catch his breath, near to panting as she strokes a path along the ridge of it. "With my hands and my mouth on your pretty wings?" Her voice is quiet, low and rough.

They ruffle of their own volition in response, opening to her, the only outlet left to him as he wills himself to stone, battling instinct, the driving need to pull her against him and rut to the tempo of her touches.

Her fingers flex, the tips of her perfectly manicured fingernails drag softly and he moans unabashedly, too far gone to contain it any longer. Her touch has him aching, _aching_ and he needs it lower, needs that touch on his...

Her hand trails away from the wing, back to his chest, where it beings to trace the taut muscles of his abdomen. "Or another part, perhaps." Lower, lower, toying at the dark thatch of wiry curls below his navel, so close, so close. He groans. He needs her touch, he needs her, _he needs her..._

"But do you know what," she concludes abruptly, in her normal tone, making him flinch. He loses her touch. "I think I've had enough, after all." And she climbs off of him, tossing her hair behind her as she does, cool and collected as can be.

For a moment all he can do is gape at her, dumbstruck, as frantic desperation fills in behind the shock.

"Didn't you hear me?" she waves dismissively. "You can get up and go, I'm done for now."

There is only one thing he can do.

" _Please._ "

It's so guttural and raw he barely recognizes his own voice, if it were that he cares to recognize anything beyond his clawing desire for even the scraps of this female's attention. He does not.

"Please, my lady," he begs her, unashamed to grovel before this perfect female who, no matter how many years they have together, will never fail to bring him to his knees.

His lady's smile is triumphant. "Well, if you're going to ask so nicely..."

She reaches behind herself, unhooking the skirts from her dress and letting it pool to the floor before she lowers herself on him once more, still denying him even the ghost of a caress.

"Not until I say," she reminds him and before it even registers her hand is on him, a quick, firm stroke before she shifts forward and takes him inside her tight hot heat with a sigh of shattering satisfaction.

He struggles not to lose it then and there. She's already moving, rolling her hips against him in a slow, exacting measure, gripping him with muscles he's never thought to train. He isn't going to last.

 _"Nesta-"_ he whines, all but giving up the game.

"Not yet," she pants, but like he's broken some spell with her name she leans in and kisses him, wildly, madly, a tangle of teeth and tongue as he wraps his arms around her, urging her hips to rock in just _that_ way. One perfect stroke after another, again and again, her breathless sounds of pleasure filling his ears, pushing him closer to the edge, the line he cannot yet cross, every muscle tight with the exertion to hold back, every fiber of his being screaming for release.

But he does not yield. His lady, his love, his _mate_ commands it of him and in this he will not falter.

"Please," he sobs into the crook of her neck, "Let me finish, Nes, I can't-" the rest of it is lost in a stuttering moan he stifles against her skin.

"Now," she rasps against his ear, catching his earlobe between her teeth, applying a finishing touch to his wing. "Now, Cass, now-"

A moment later all he knows is starlight and sensation, pulsing waves of rapture that come and come and come until he is spent.

When he returns to himself he finds the fingers in his hair no longer yank and pull but comb and smooth, her once sharp tongue soft and pliant where Nesta plants slow, sloppy kisses along the line of his shoulder. "I liked those pants," she murmurs ruefully, affection and contentment melting away the cold bite of her voice.

He lifts his head, already flashing a rakish grin. "Too bad you were so hot to get them off of me," he raises and lowers his eyebrows. "But who needs pants with a female like you, anyway?"

"Brute," she laughs, shoving him.

"Wicked temptress," he retorts, pulling her back to him and nipping at her velvet choker with a growl before he leans up and kisses her softly, sweetly.

"Do I get one last demand?"

"One? Not a chance, sweetheart."

They both know he will give her as many as she likes.


End file.
